The room of security

    In a house, there is a room. A sacred room for the family. A room well-kept but rarely cleaned, a room highly honored but void of life, a room so sacred but few have entered. What was in this room? A simple bed, a dresser with a simple set of clothes, and a floor to ceiling mirror with a simple frame. A spare room, the guest room. 

Why so barren? Well, one does not need material - permanent - objects to give a room value. The value comes through the elderly man who wrinkles the sheets when he’s lost his way. It comes through the faint smell of alcohol in the corners from the drunken teens who stumbled to their doors. It comes through the stray toys tucked under the bed from the play children turning the room into a world of adventure for a single day. One does not need priceless jewels to add value to the place, for the memories are worth their weight in gold. 

The family themselves live in a small town beside a highway. Unlike the family, the town barely knows kindness. A history of kidnapped children and beaten drunkards appearing in the news every day. A town so broken that half the windows lack glasses and some front doors can barely close. A town filled with residents sleeping with one eye open and always glancing over one shoulder. In such a dark town, the family themselves were a beacon of light that could never fade. 

But this story is not about the family, for they are but the middlemen between the weary travelers and their safe haven in the room of memories. Every week was a gamble over what kind of person would wander out those doors at sunrise. Whether it be a single parent family or a homeless woman. They never shared names, never gave anything in thanks, and never returned to that room once more. 

At night, when the streets are alive with furious shouts and horns from the streets, the guests flee to the room with its soundproof walls, blocking out the reality and terrors for only a short while. Eventually, however, the peaceful illusion would fade and the people would return to reenter the chaos once more. 

Sometimes, a catastrophe would strike a neighbor in the small town. Word would spread, for there would only ever be a few ears to whisper to, and the family would show up on the distraught neighbor’s front door within a few hours. They would extend their room to the struggling neighbor, taking them as a guest within their home. The neighbor would emerge happier than before, as if under some sort of spell. But the spell would only last a few days at most, then the neighbor would return to normal and forget the experience with the golden family and the room of security. 

One day, the time finally arrived for the golden family’s light to fade. No one remembered who or what started the fire, only the rumors. Rumors of jealous teens who never got to experience the magical joy, rumors of dangerous guests leaving dangerous tools alone for too long, rumors of the gods envying the kind- almost perfectness - of the golden family and striking them down in a storm. Whatever the case may be, the house caught flame and the family, for once, was helpless as they watched the guest room burn down to ash. 

No one knew what to do about it. To see the child that always ran his mouth be incapable of uttering a word… To see the mother of sunshine appear so pale like she never has seen the sun… To see the father with stars for eyes has a frown as dark as a cloudy day… It was disheartening. The people knew they needed to do something, but what? The room of memories and security was but ash, and the family that brought the joy were the very same ones that needed their spirits lifted.   

One man suggested buying a new house for the family, one bigger and better than the last. But no one knew where they could get the funds for such a task. Another suggested making meals for the family, but no one took the time to learn what foods the family liked. One by one, people suggested ideas for the family, but one by one they were shot down for one reason or another. 

Soon, the focus of the meeting began to dwindle. The drunkards brought out a casket of beer and started to sing tales of war. The children ran circles around the lawn, acting out stories understood only by them. The elderly shared their own histories with weary travellers stopping by to resupply, and the travelers shared their own experiences in exchange. Fights tried to break out among the more uneasy members, but were drowned out by voices of new bonds formed between once strangers. 

Desperately, the mayor and leader of the meeting tried to recall the focus of the meeting for the townsfolk, but stopped upon seeing something at the edge of the lot. 

The very family they were trying to help. To the town’s surprise, the family was grinning, their eyes on the brink of tears from pure bliss. The sunshine mother thanked the town for helping their family raise their spirits once again.

Confusion clear in his words, the mayor asked what the town possibly did in deserving of thanks. They haven’t even begun any of their plans, for most of the suggestions fell flat. 

In response, the father explained that the town was together. The guest room was but a container for the true value kept inside. The memories, the experiences. For the drunkards needed not a room to lift their spirits, as the children did not need the room to tell their stories. The elderly needed not a room to share their lengthy lives, as the lost did not need the room for direction. The room never stopped the fights and the room never solved the catastrophes. The room was but a simple guest room, the father reminded the crowd, it was the experiences that everyone truly held dear. 

Perhaps saying that room was the subject of the story was inaccurate. For the room would always be only a simple room, and such material things could never outweigh the pricelessness of memories.